The Gift of Less
Please, sir, I want less.
Reflecting on the music I’ve listened to over the past year, I’m struck by an obvious theme: I want less. Not less music — far from it — but less of the very stuff that constitutes the music. I crave concision and economy; lyricism born of the knowledge that saying less can often reveal more. I want expressions of lean poetry rather than stomping displays of empty virtuosity and rampaging ego. I need space between notes and phrases, room enough for silence to speak.
As this dreadful year comes to a close, let me share a musical moment of simple beauty that reliably brings me both pleasure and much-needed serenity. In this case of oil and water mixing perfectly, Miles Davis sculpts out a space that is somehow apart from the full-tilt surroundings yet fully integrated within them. Sort of like Hemingway’s famous definition of courage: grace under pressure.
I see his example as a metaphor for the personal atmosphere of composure we each must construct to endure the tumult of our present social situation. The goal is to find whatever calm we can within the raging storm.
“Milestones,” or “Miles” (as it was originally titled on the 1958 album Milestones, and not to be confused with Davis’s earlier tune “Milestones” from 1947 which was actually composed by John Lewis and given to Davis as a gift. Got that? ), is an abbreviated masterpiece that offered a momentous glimpse of jazz to come sneaked into a sliver of a performance. Although Davis didn’t fully explore modal jazz — that is, to put it very simply, improvising on scales rather than chords — until his revolutionary 1959 masterwork, Kind of Blue, this brief performance finds his fine-tuned sextet delving into modal playing with gusto.
Alto saxophonist Cannonball Adderley takes the first solo, living up to his nickname, eager to say as much as he can within the allotted space offered. A barrage of notes and tightly compacted phrases whizz by (including a “Fascinating Rhythm” quote he manages to slip in). The image of a rodeo contest comes to mind, with Adderley as both the rampaging bull and the rider holding on for dear life.
Davis follows, here playing a flugelhorn, his foot firmly on the brakes. He’s a reverse image of Adderley, applying terse, haunting melodies with real time care and precision. If you can sound utterly relaxed and pointedly poised at the same time, that’s Miles. His solo goes by in a flash yet can linger for a lifetime.
Tenor saxophonist John Coltrane picks up where Miles leaves off, but he’s heard the master’s message. Given half a chance, Coltrane would normally go for broke, but as if shaken by the expressive weight of Miles’s economical playing, he leaves more space in his solo than usual. He’s still plenty prolix but things seems a bit more ordered.
With the majestic rhythm section of pianist Red Garland, bassist Paul Chambers, and drummer Philly Joe Jones nipping at their heels, Cannonball and Trane — masters in their own right — grab you, shake you, and deposit you at the curb. Miles just wants to soothe your soul.